


The Adventures of Varzulnar

by SockMountain



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Orcs, intro/tutorial, that's it really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SockMountain/pseuds/SockMountain
Summary: Varzulnar Gro-Nar: an orc far from home. What is he doing here in the frozen north? What is his purpose? When was the last time he bathed?





	1. Face Your Death With Some Courage

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing.

**“Face your death with some courage...”**

A sudden movement awoke him, a great jerking and a muffled grunt from his right. Varzulnar opened his blue-grey eyes and tried to focus to no avail. Eventually the blurry mass before him sharpened. A blond, bearded Nord stared at him curiously.

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” he said. Varzulnar couldn’t respond before the cart they appeared to be on rolled over another bump and his vision blurred once more. The Nord kept talking, but Varzulnar heard nothing more than a faint buzzing.

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” a second man said, but the cart jerked again and his voice faded from Varzulnar’s grasp. A chunk of conversation was lost to him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The man driving the cart--an Imperial soldier, Varzulnar recognized--snapped something that Varzulnar didn’t hear properly. Concerned, he lifted his hands and found them bound. He grunted in annoyance and lifted his hands to his head, gently exploring. His ear was bleeding from a wound in the cartilage and his ear canal had been blocked with dry blood. He cleared it out and found his hearing greatly improved. Relieved, he moved on with his exploration. All was fine until his finger dipped into a wet hole that was not previously there.

Varzulnar quickly retreated and decided to leave the head wound alone for the time being. He wiped the blood on his finger off on his ragged pants and noted with irritation that the Orcish armor his mother made had been stripped from him.

He turned back to the Nords in the cart and found them still talking. The blond Nord--Varzulnar decided to call him Beard--mentioned Sovngarde. Varzulnar remembered it as the Nordic term for “afterlife” and snorted with distaste. The Nords didn’t seem to notice and continued their chatter. “A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” Varzulnar heard Beard say to the second Nord.

Varzulnar heard worried grunting from his right and turned to examine what was making the noise. It was yet another Nord. He was bound and gagged. His great mane of hair was greasy from days of no bathing and his luxurious clothing was torn. Varzulnar could not place the man, nor was anything about him familiar. He turned away, disinterested.

The cart rattled its way into a great stone fort and Beard began swearing at the sight of some Imperial general. Varzulnar blocked out his obnoxious ramblings and instead turned his attention to a boy and his father standing on the porch of a large building.

“Who are they, Papa?” the boy asked.

“You need to go inside, little cub,” the father deflected.

“But why? I want to watch the soldiers.”

“Inside. Now,” the father commanded.

“Yes, Papa,” the boy sighed. He entered the house as the cart halted. Prisoners began filing out of the numerous carts in the fort. Varzulnar slid out carefully in order to prevent aggravating his wound. Dizziness struck him as he stood, regardless. He refocused just as Beard shouted something about a Jarl in his ear. He grimaced.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” a well-built Nord said. It took Varzulnar a moment to realize he was reading off a list. By then, Beard--or Ralof--had stepped forward. “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The other Nord from Varzulnar’s cart burst forward and shouted frantically at the soldier reciting names. The Redguard woman in heavy armor next to the soldier barked, “Everyone goes to the blocks!” The prisoner ran past her and up the road a few yards. An archer shot him down without hesitation. Varzulnar smothered a chuckle as his body fell in a comical position, his legs spread far apart.

“...Who are you...? You from one of the strongholds, Orc? How did you end up here?” The soldier with the list tilted his head while examining Varzulnar. “Captain, this one’s not on the list.”

“They all go to the block,” the captain sneered.

The Nord was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry... We’ll make sure your remains are returned to Orsinium.” He frowned sadly at Varzulnar, his eyes full of unwanted pity.

_My remains,_ Varzulnar thought. _This is an execution. That’s why Beard--Ralof... mentioned Sovngarde. This is my death._

The General that Ralof had been swearing about approached the bound and gagged Nord noble and began a slow, dull speech. Varzulnar was focused more on staying upright than his words. When the speech was finished, a priestess came forward and began preaching a traditional death rite. A prisoner interrupted, apparently incensed, and demanded his execution before she could finish.

Varzulnar watched the proceeds with a feeling of detachment. This would not be a glorious death. This death was not one Malacath would appreciate. A sudden anxiety bloomed in his gut at the thought of his god’s wrath. He was shaken out of it by the sound of the executioner’s axe falling on the prisoner’s neck. Somewhere in the distance, a strange noise burst forth. Everyone looked to the sky with curiosity and concern.

“Next, the Orc!” the captain shouted with very apparent glee. Varzulnar sighed heavily. He took a step forward.

Again the noise rolled down the hills. “What was that?” the soldier with the list asked. The noise came once more. “There it is again...”

“I said, next prisoner!” the captain shrieked.

“To the block, prisoner,” the soldier said, “nice and easy.”

Varzulnar approached the blood-soaked block of stone that would be his death place. His executioners had not even moved the body of the Nord prisoner out of the way. The captain shoved Varzulnar’s large frame over it uncomfortably. He came face-to-severed head as he kneeled over the block. The prisoner’s head had rolled up after being cut off and now seemed to stare right at the Orc. His gut twisted, and he turned away from the gruesome sight.

The noise sounded again, stronger now than ever before. Varzulnar had never heard anything like it. He stared up at the headsman as the axe was raised. The headsman leaned back, preparing the last blow to ever strike Varzulnar.

_Mother did say I’d face the wrath of my ancestors._

“What in Oblivion is that?!” the General shouted from behind Varzulnar. The headsman’s axe blocked the view of whatever the general referred to, but not for long. He was thrown out of the way with a heavy thud, a burst of air and noise. Varzulnar himself was also pushed away from the block and onto his hands and knees.

The noise rushed forth into Varzulnar’s ears. He chanced a look backwards and saw a massive, black...

“Dragon!” a Stormcloak soldier screamed.

The dragon roared--that was the noise?!--and balls of fiery earth rained down from the sky. Varzulnar’s vision blurred as the earth shook.

“Hey, Orc! Get up! The gods won’t give us another chance!” Ralof shouted somewhere in front of him. Varzulnar squeezed his eyes shut and stumbled towards the Nord’s voice. Ralof grasped his arm and half-dragged the sizable Orc into a stone tower. Someone slammed the door shut. Varzulnar fleetingly wondered how Ralof had gotten off his bindings so fast. The Nord sat him down on the stairs and turned to whoever had shut the door.

“Jarl Ulfric,” he panted, “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Jarl Ulfric said. Varzulnar opened his eyes and saw that this Jarl, this Nord chief of sorts, was the gagged man he had been sitting next to.  
The tower shook violently. Outside, Imperial soldiers shouted and screamed. The dragon roared back.

“We need to move. Now!” the Jarl shouted.

“Up through the tower,” Ralof offered. “Let’s go!”

He yanked Varzulnar to his feet and up the stairs. They were forced to stop where some stones that had fallen from the ceiling blocked the way. A Stormcloak soldier was trying to lift one. He turned to Ralof and Varzulnar and began to speak.

“We just need to move some stones and we can--”

The dragon’s head burst through the wall. Ralof shoved Varzulnar backwards and turned his back as the dragon opened its maw and let loose a burst of flames. Just as quickly, it pulled its head out of the hole it’d made and flew away. The soldier was lying limp in a corner, his legs buried by rocks.

Ralof ignored his fallen comrade and peered out of the hole. “There. See that inn? Jump through the hole in the roof and get to the other side. We’ll meet up with you later.”

Varzulnar opened his mouth to protest that he was in no shape for jumping, but Ralof shoved him through the opening in the wall. Varzulnar experienced flight quite unhappily.

He landed on the second story of the smoldering inn with a grunt. A fresh wave of dizziness rolled through his body, and warmth trickled down his neck and onto his clothing. He swallowed his pain and ran through the inn, holding his breath to avoid smoke. His vision blurred with the effort and he didn’t see the hole in the floor until he’d fallen through it and onto his back. Varzulnar wheezed and shut his eyes to escape the harsh light of morning and the pain all through his body. He forced himself upright and ran outside.

The only way to go was left, and that’s where he ran. The ground shook as the dragon landed not a hundred feet away. The soldier that had read off the list of names stood twenty feet from it. As Varzulnar approached him it became clear that the man’s intention was not to fight the dragon, but to retrieve the boy Varzulnar had seen earlier from his grievously wounded father’s side.

“Hamming! You have to get over here, now!” he shouted. The boy ran, tears streaming down his soot covered face. The boy’s father stared the dragon in the face and turned back to watch his son run away from him. “Torolf!” the soldier cried, dismayed. The dragon laid waste to the poor man with a blast of flame.

The soldier turned away as the dragon took to the skies yet again. He spotted Varzulnar. “Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.” He addressed an elderly man Varzulnar had not seen before. “Take care of the boy.”

“Gods guide you, Hadvar,” the old man said as the soldier rushed off. Varzulnar followed.

The dragon circled the village as the pair ran through it. It swooped down when Hadvar jumped down a ledge. “Stay close to the wall!” he yelled. Varzulnar did as he was told.

The dragon landed on the wall behind them, its enormous wings nearly brushing their faces. Varzulnar felt himself go cold when the dragon’s right wing tip tapped his groin. He froze in place and even held his breath until the dragon took off.

“Keep moving!” Hadvar ordered. He continued on without checking to see if Varzulnar was indeed moving. They ran through a collapsed house and into a road, where several archers and mages were fighting the flying dragon.

“Move it, soldier!” the General boomed at Hadvar. “Into the keep!”

Hadvar bolted to the left like a dog on a hunt. Varzulnar chased after him and the two of them arrived in a courtyard. There, a wall had collapsed and Ralof and the other Stormcloaks were clambering over it.

“Ralof, you damned traitor!” Hadvar roared. “Get out of my way!”

“We’re leaving, Hadvar. There’s no stopping us this time!” Ralof replied.

“Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” Hadvar spat. As they argued, Varzulnar saw the dragon circle around, pick up an Imperial soldier with its claws, and release the unfortunate man, sending him cartwheeling through to air to land beyond the village walls.

“With me, prisoner!” Hadvar ordered.

“This way!” Ralof countered. They both looked at him expectantly. Varzulnar looked from one to the other just a little too fast, and more dizziness set in. He suddenly found himself leaning on Ralof’s shoulder as they stumbled into the keep.


	2. History Has Mislabeled Them Beastfolk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our gravely wounded hero escapes death--and is sent on an errand.

**“History has mislabeled them beastfolk...”**

Ralof and Varzulnar stumbled out of a cave nearly five hours later. They leaned heavily on each other. Varzulnar’s blood loss from his head wound and others he had sustained had driven his skin color to an ashy laurel green rather than its usual shamrock. Ralof, meanwhile, had fallen and scraped a nice chunk of flesh off of his leg while escaping a bear. Ralof made as if to say something, but the dragon flew over them and Varzulnar found himself pressed against a tree as they hid. The dragon passed them by with a roar before disappearing in the clouds.

“Looks like we’re in the clear this time.” Ralof sat down heavily on a rock. “You know,” he grunted, tying a strip of cloth around his leg, “I never did get your name, Orc.”

Varzulnar made a noncommittal noise. His dizziness had not gone away since its last wave and he knew that the boundless energy he had now meant death had just skirted him. It was still too close for comfort. 

Ralof waited for a real response for a moment and then simply nodded. “I understand. We should probably get some help before storytime, eh?” He stood on unsteady feet, leaning on Varzulnar once more, and the two limped away. As they slowly walked down the path, Ralof spoke. “My sister Gerdur owns a lumber mill in Riverwood. The village isn’t far from here. She’ll help us.” He squinted at Varzulnar. “But I think we’ll need a priest or priestess of Kynareth to fix that.” Varzulnar said nothing, focused on walking.

They came to a bend in the road. Three obelisk-like stones stood in formation. A carving of a different figure was displayed on each one.

“These are the Guardian Stones,” Ralof said quietly. “Three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape.” He motioned to the stones. “Go ahead. See for yourself.”

Varlzulnar approached the stones slowly as to not aggravate his many wounds. He pressed his palm to the stone on the right with the carving of a warrior holding an axe and a shield. It began to glow before sending out a beam of light to the heavens.

“Warrior! Good! Those stars will guide you to honor and glory.” Ralof motioned to Varzulnar to return to him. Leaning on each other once more, they began walking down the road.

Three wolves ran towards them as they walked. Varzulnar, in no mood, roared at them with all the might of an Orc berserker. The lead wolf yipped in fear and bolted away with its tail between its legs. Its packmates followed, casting fearful looks in Varzulnar’s direction.

Ralof chuckled. “I’m glad you decided to come with me. We’re almost to Riverwood.” Varzulnar grunted again, deep in his throat.

They limped around a bend in the road and the village finally came into view. A wood elf carrying firewood took one look at them, dropped his cargo, and sprinted towards the mill. 

“I suppose we should follow,” Ralof said with a grim smile. They slowly made their way across a wooden bridge. They passed an enormous pile of logs and then were behind the mill. There, leaning on a table and examining a woodcutter’s axe, stood a blonde Nord woman. She turned towards Varzulnar and Ralof and a striking resemblance between the two Nords became apparent.

“Gerdur,” Ralof breathed.

“Ralof!” the woman cried, startled. “Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you. But is it safe for you to be here? We’ve heard that Ulfric had been captured, and--”

“Gerdur... Gerdur, I’m fine,” Ralof assured his sister.

“Ralof,” Gerdur sighed. She looked at Varzulnar curiously and said, “And who is this? A comrade of yours?”

“Not a comrade,” Ralof said, “but a friend. I owe him my life in fact.”

Gerdur swallowed fearfully. “Then I’m in your debt. Let’s go sit down and you’ll tell me all about what happened.”

They walked to the other side of the small island. Gerdur paused at the edge of the mill where the cut wood rested and shouted at her husband, who sat on the rough wood floor of the mill, to come down.

“What is it, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?” the mustachioed man asked. 

“Hod, just come down,” Gerdur snapped. The man groaned dramatically as he hoisted himself to his feet, then spotted Ralof.

“Ralof? What are you doing here?” he said. “I’ll be right down!”

Ralof sat down heavily on a respectable tree stump and sighed. Varzulnar leaned on a tree near the river. A faintness had started to seep into his bones.

Hod arrived at Gerdur’s side, panting, and said, “Ralof, what’s happened? You two look pretty well done in.”

Ralof rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know when I last slept,” he finally began. “They got us in Darkwater Passing. An ambush. Almost like they knew exactly where we’d be. They carted us to Helgen. Had us on the headsman’s block and ready to start chopping.”

“The cowards,” Gerdur huffed.

“They wouldn’t dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would have seen the truth then.” Ralof continued. Hod nodded eagerly. “But then... Out of nowhere... A dragon attacked.”

“You don’t mean a real, live--” Gerdur said.

“I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there,” Ralof said. “As strange as it sounds, we’d be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away.” 

“Gods above,” Hod murmured.

“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like,” Gerdur said quickly. She turned to Varzulnar. “But I need to ask a favor of you. The Jarl of Whiterun needs to know about this.”

Varzulnar’s head throbbed at the thought.

“Gerdur, he’s injured,” Ralof supplied. “He needs to be tended to, first. Let him rest for a day or two and then he’ll go.”

Varzulnar frowned. _Thanks for the help,_ he thought.

Gerdur nodded. She and Hod helped Ralof and Varzulnar, respectively, to their feet. The group then moved slowly to Hod and Gerdur’s house. Varzulnar was sat down at the kitchen table. Ralof sat on the bed.

“Now, I don’t know what Orcs normally look like, but he seems pale,” Gerdur said. She leaned over Varzulnar, whose vision swam. “Hod,” Gerdur called. “Get a healing potion.” She leaned even closer and inspected the Orc’s eyes. “And maybe Delphine.”

Varzulnar drifted in and out of consciousness but still felt the mill owners rushing around. Their voices mingled with others, new voices, but Varzulnar was too far gone to truly recognize what they were saying. He was vaguely aware of someone with cold hands touching his head. They pressed a little too hard on his wound and darkness overcame him.

Delphine turned away from the Orc on the large bed in Hod and Gerdur’s medium sized home. “He’ll live,” she said stiffly. Her very bones felt tired from the extensive healing spells the wound had required. “I don’t know how he could even survive that wound, let alone fight and walk around for days.” She stood unsteadily and spared a second glance at the green mer. 

“Thank you,” Ralof said with reverence. His own wounds had simply been bandaged, but the work he’d seen her do was extraordinary. The Orc’s head wound was almost completely healed; just a small scab was left. The rest of him was still covered in scrapes, bumps, and immense bruises--Gerdur had cut away his ragged clothes to make way for Delphine--because the innkeeper had been forced to give all her attention to the mer’s grievous head wound. 

Gerdur touched Delphine’s shoulder. The innkeeper flinched but did nothing else.

“Thank you for your help, Delphine. You should go back to the inn and rest. There’s nothing else you can do for him,” the mill owner said. Delphine nodded and made her way out of the house. 

“Will he be all right?” a small voice asked from the corner. Gerdur turned to smile at her son.

“He’ll be fine, Frodnar. Go to sleep,” she soothed.

“Why was he hurt, Mama?” the boy asked. Gerdur shook her head, put her finger to her lips, and tucked the boy in. Hod was already asleep on a bedroll next to the fire.

“You should rest too, Ralof,” Gerdur murmured quietly. She tiptoed past Hod and hefted Ralof up. Together they walked to the large bed where the Orc slept fitfully. Gerdur gently let Ralof down onto the bed and lay a fur over him. He smiled appreciatively at his sister and closed his eyes. She herself walked quietly over to Hod and slipped into his bedroll. Everyone was fast asleep within minutes.  
  
**Two days later...**

Varzulnar woke with a start. He quickly noticed an improvement in his thinking. It was clearer, less fogged. His head no longer throbbed. His movements didn’t feel as achy or slow. He took time and care as he sat up. He reached up to feel his head wound but knew before he touched it that it would be gone. 

“Mama, he’s awake,” a voice said. Varzulnar looked over at the boy it belonged to with a raised eyebrow. The boy tilted his head and smiled, his messy blond hair flopping to one side as the boy adjusted his bed’s furs into place.

“Oh,” said a surprised Gerdur. She hurried over the the foot of the bed and put her hands on her hips. “Good, I was starting to wonder.”

Varzulnar attempted to speak but all that came out was a hoarse rasp. He coughed into a fist until his eyes watered.

Gerdur disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with a pail of water. She handed to the Orc, who drank eagerly.

Varzulnar wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Gerdur’s son stirred with interest. The child crept closer. 

“That’s what an Orc sounds like?” Frodnar exclaimed. Gerdur shushed him angrily.

Varzulnar grinned, knowing that his smile was less than pleasant. The boy quieted immediately. 

Gerdur wiped her hands on her dress. “Look, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need a favor. You can take whatever you need from my home, but please, please go to Whiterun and tell the Jarl about Helgen. Riverwood needs protection.”

Varzulnar grimaced. “This town would not survive a dragon attack on its own, eh?”

“This _village_ can barely survive as it is. I know you’re hurt, but Ralof can’t walk and Hod and I are needed at the mill. I’d send Faendal, but he’s our only food supplier... Will you go?” Gerdur ran her hands through her hair. Varzulnar stared at the Nord for several minutes.

“Yes, I will go,” he rumbled. He rose to his feet and grunted with surprise as his head brushed the rafters. He eyed the wooden beams with suspicion. “I need coin and armor. Weapons are not a necessity, but a battle axe would be a bonus.” He pushed past Gerdur and began rooting through the house.

Gerdur breathed a heavy sigh. “The only axes I have are for chopping wood, but perhaps Alvor could help you. His forge is on the main road through Riverwood.”

Varzulnar straightened and shut the drawer he had been rifling through. “Alvor. Thank you. I will buy some armor and a weapon there.” He headed for the door.

“Wait!” Gerdur shouted. Varzulnar turned, irritated. 

“What?” he demanded.

A blush traveled up Gerdur’s neck and onto her cheeks and ears. “You’re nearly naked,” she said in a small voice.

Varzulnar looked down and saw that he was indeed nearly naked. A thin loincloth barely covered him. He grunted and said, “Do you have any clothes that would fit me?”

Gerdur walked over to the bed Varzulnar had vacated and opened the drawer of the nightstand next to it. She pulled a large pair of pants out and tossed them to the Orc. “That’s the biggest pair of trousers we have.”

Varzulnar slipped them on with no complaint. They reached mid-calf, but they would do for a short walk. He nodded to Gerdur and Frodnar before exiting the house.

His bare feet padded down the rough cobblestone street. He heard the forge before he saw it; the familiar sound of a hammer striking metal, shaping it into a deadly weapon or a life saving piece of armor. He followed the sound, pointedly ignoring the startled cry of an old woman when she saw him. He climbed up the steps and stood in the doorway of the forge.

A dark-haired, bearded man looked up from his work when Varzulnar rapped his rough knuckles against the wall. The Nord rubbed his eyes and was clearly surprised at the sight of a hulking Orc in his doorway.

“Can I help you, friend?” he asked slowly. He set the blade he’d been forming into a water filled trough to cool.

“You’re Alvor?” Varzulnar asked. The Nord nodded. “I am in need of heavy armor and a battle axe.” He dropped a bag of coin on the smith’s workbench.

Alvor crossed his arms. “Hmm. Will a steel battle axe do? I have one already made and sharpened. Finding armor that will fit you is another matter...” He turned to a table behind him and began sorting through the steel work on it. “Here,” he said, turning around again and handing Varzulnar a battle axe. As Varzulnar examined the steel and its fine edge, Alvor went back to looking for suitable pieces of armor. Every once in awhile he’d hand Varzulnar a piece to try on. They eventually found all the pieces needed, although Alvor had to search his basement for a pair of boots. Varzulnar strapped the armor on and smiled.

“It fits well. Thank you, Alvor,” he said.

“Not a problem, friend. I enjoyed the challenge.” Alvor patted the Orc on the back. “You’d better get going if you want to make it to Whiterun before sundown.”

Varzulnar hummed and took his leave. The feel of the heavy steel armor and the battle axe strapped to his back was comforting. It was a weight he was familiar with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I have several chapters already written, but formatting on here is a bit of a pain so I'm putting them out one by one.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posting on AO3--or anywhere for that matter. I'm just hoping to get some constructive feedback, I guess.


End file.
